


Prisoners of Our Own Device

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode s02e15 "Booked Solid", First Time, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your private life is obviously entirely your own business, and none of mine," said Finch.</p><p>"Obviously," said Reese in a tone that clearly meant, 'Obviously not.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prisoners of Our Own Device

Harold Finch walked into the library to find John Reese already there, lounging comfortably in a chair and reading Asimov's _The Gods Themselves_. 

"I'm surprised to see you in so early this morning, Mr. Reese."

"Oh, why is that?"

"Well, I would have thought that after your evening with Ms. Morgan..." Finch trailed off.

"What, Finch?"

"Nothing, Mr. Reese. Your private life is obviously entirely your own business, and none of mine."

"Obviously," said Reese in a tone that clearly meant, 'Obviously not.'

Finch took off his coat, put his bag down, sat in his chair, turned on his computer, and started to type. After a minute he stopped, turned to Reese and said,

"Considering our situation, however, do you really think it's wise to engage in a relationship with someone whose stock-in-trade is other people's secrets?"

"I thought my private life was my own business. Besides it isn't a relationship."

"Then what is it, exactly?" Finch's voice was sharp.

"Stress relief."

"I see. That doesn't sound very..."

"Very what, Harold?"

"Gentlemanly."

"I was a perfect gentleman. We discussed parameters. We both knew exactly what it was, and what it wasn't."

"Oh, and what wasn't it, then?" Finch's voice was two registers higher than normal.

Reese fixed his partner with a long hard stare, "Meaningful."

Reese went back to his book, but when the typing didn't start again, he looked up to find Finch still looking at him with a tight expression on his face.

"If it bothers you that much Harold, I won't do it again."

Finch quickly turned to his computer and started to type.

"Bother me, no, of course not, why on earth would what you do on your own time, and who you choose to do it with, it bother me?"

"Well, you seem a little upset," Reese said mildly.

"Not at all." Finch typed furiously. And Reese was silent for a few minutes.

"I'm sorry Harold."

"Whatever for?"

"I know it's difficult for you, only ever seeing her from across the park, living with just those fleeting glimpses... and your memories."

Finch stood abruptly, took two steps away from his desk and turned his back to Reese.

"This has nothing to do with my feelings for Grace."

Reese closed the book and put it down on the table, and then he got up and walked quietly over to stand behind Harold.

"What does it have to do with, Harold?" When no answer was forthcoming, he continued, "I mean it. I won't see Zoe again if you don't want me to."

"Why would you..." Harold trailed off, unable to think of a way to finish the question that wasn't 'do that for me?'

Reese reached up and put his hand on Finch's shoulder, and Finch tensed, but didn't move away or shrug him off.

"Because you're the most important person in the world to me, Harold," he said, stroking the back of Harold's neck, with his thumb, "and I would never do anything to hurt you." Reese continued the slow, gentle stroking, caressing the strip of bare skin between Finch's shirt collar and hairline with the ball of his thumb.

"I understand that you have... physical needs, Mr. Reese. I can't ask you to..." Finch broke off.

"Can't ask me to what?" Reese paused, "Tell me what you want."

"Please stop doing that."

Reese stilled his thumb immediately, but let it rest on the edge of Finch's shirt collar, maintaining the contact with a feather-light touch. For a long moment, neither of them moved nor spoke. 

Reese stepped around to face Finch, at the same time sliding his hand up off Finch's shoulder and letting it cradle the back of his neck. He looked into his friend's eyes and saw hope and fear, desire and despair.

"John," it was a plea.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Harold," Reese said, leaning down slowly to close the gap between them, "unless you tell me to stop." 

Finch breathed out sharply, and Reese paused, waiting for him to speak, but then moved again, and kept lowering his head slowly until his lips met Harold's. Reese kissed him softly, gently. Paused. Gave him another chance to object, and then kissed him again. This time Finch kissed him back, almost involuntarily, as if he couldn't help himself, as if... Harold grabbed a fistful of John's shirt in one hand and pulled him closer. He snaked the other hand into John's hair, dragging his head down further to meet the mouth that was questing, claiming, hot and wet and open, wanting and needing, gasping and moaning... and then gone.

"I can't do this." Harold was again standing two steps away with his back to John.

"Can't, or won't?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters to me. You know how much I care for you, Harold. If I'd known before now..."

"Known what?"

"How good kissing you was going to be. I wouldn't have waited this long."

"How long?"

"Months. You?"

"What?"

"How long have you felt... whatever it is you feel?"

"Months," the admission was a whisper.

"We need figure this out."

"Yes, I suppose so." Harold sighed tiredly, "But not right now. I need time to think."

"I'll go out. Give you some space. Come to my place tonight? For dinner. And then we'll talk." Reese turned to go, and then stopped, "Harold, whatever happens, I'll still be here, and we'll still be friends. I promise."

"Thank you, John."

"See you tonight."

"Yes."

~~~~~~

Reese left the library and spent a long time simply walking the streets of New York, thinking. Going over the past few months in his mind. Remembering standing on a street corner talking to a security camera. Remembering running through a train station with a single-minded focus that eclipsed everything, including rational thought. Remembering a night on a rooftop, and the overwhelming gratitude he had felt, knowing that he was going to get to spend his last few seconds looking into Harold's eyes. Even then, even then he hadn't had the courage to speak or act. Not until this morning, when Harold made it clear that John was not alone in that chasm of hope and fear and uncertainty and desire, any more that he could have been alone on the rooftop.

The promise he had made to Finch in the library that morning sat solid and real, grounded in the core of his being. He would be there for Harold, as his friend, no matter what. Even if Harold decided that they could never pursue this... thing between them, he would be there. He would be Harold's friend, partner, companion, bodyguard, right-hand-man, anything and everything that Harold required of him or wanted from him. He would be strong and resolute and bury his feelings if necessary - because he loved and trusted Harold, the man who had saved him, and given him a purpose. 

Feeling calm and centered, Reese turned his steps towards home, stopping on the way at his favourite local butcher shop and grocery store. 

Reese wasn't entirely sure that Harold Finch would actually show up at his apartment that evening, until he received a text at half-past five that said simply, "Red or white?"

Reese grinned and tapped out the reply, "Whichever you prefer with veal."

~~~~~~

Harold put his knife and fork neatly together on his plate, took a sip of wine, and said, "That was a lovely meal, Mr. Reese. Thank you."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"So."

"I meant what I said this morning," said Reese, starting with what was most important to him. "Whatever happens, I will still be your partner and your friend. If you need more time, I'll wait, but I want this. We'd be good together, Harold."

"You don't think that the two of us becoming... physically intimate might make it more difficult to do our jobs - that the... emotional attachment will inhibit us from taking the risks we sometimes need to take?"

"Is it easy for you now, to send me into danger?"

"No, of course it isn't. I worry about you the whole time you're out working. Every time I hear gun shots, my pulse races and my heart pounds until I hear your voice again."

"You're afraid of that getting worse."

"Aren't you?"

"Six months ago I told the Machine that I'd rather die than do this work without you. I wasn't bluffing. And I seem to remember you refusing to leave me to die alone on a rooftop, recently. How much more attached could we get?" 

"I don't want to lose you the way I lost Nathan. I don't think I could stand it."

"You told me at the beginning that this job would probably get us both killed."

"Yes, but that was before... When I hired you I couldn't imagine anything other than a business relationship. I thought you would be too violent, too ruthless, too cold for me to even like you. I never expected us to become friends. I never expected to care about you. To care for you."

"You can't protect yourself by trying not to care."

"I know."

Reese stood up from the table, at the same time saying, "Stay there, or go sit on the couch if you'll be more comfortable - I'm just going to put these in the sink," and Reese dexterously gathered all the dishes, piling them onto one outstretched arm like an experienced silver service waiter. On his way back into the dining room part of the loft, he stopped by the stereo and turned up the music that had been playing quietly all evening, a station that specialized in slow Jazz.

Back beside the table where Finch was still sitting, looking unhappy, Reese held out his hand.

"May I have this dance?"

"Mr. Reese, I really don't think..."

"Harold, please, for tonight at least, call me John," his voice was soft and beseeching, and the sound of it made Harold look up into the eyes that were watching him.

"John, what is this?"

"This is me trying to be a gentleman. It seemed important to you." Reese said softly, and when Harold still didn't move, he continued, "It's just dancing, Harold."

Harold took the proffered hand and got to his feet. John took Harold's other hand and placed it at his own waist, and then laid his palm between Harold's shoulder blades. 

"I'll be leading, but only because I'm taller," he said with a smile in his voice that didn't quite make it to his lips.

They danced formally. At first Finch was stiff and awkward, but Reese persisted, swaying and leading them in small steps in time to the music. The song changed to a slower one, full of long drawn-out saxophone notes, and Reese gathered Finch in a little closer. Finch relaxed into him with a soft sigh.

"Can I ask you something?" Finch said after a few minutes.

"Anything."

"Have you... Is this... I take it you've done this before?"

"Had a relationship with another man, you mean? Isn't it in my file?" John lifted his cheek from where his had been resting against the top of Finch's head. 

"Your military file is limited by Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Your CIA file lists your psycho-sexual profile as Kinsey 2, but that of course doesn't mean that you ever acted... So I take it you have." 

"Yes. I'm surprised the CIA didn't dig that up."

"The only thing in your CIA file is a reference to you engaging in..." Two plus two suddenly came together to make four in Finch's head, "...'stress relief' in the field."

"Well, I guess I'm kind of glad it doesn't say that I took it up the ass against the wall of the supply shed in Tikrit."

"Took it..."

"I have very few hang-ups, Harold."

"I'll say."

"So?"

"What?"

"I take it you've done this before."

"Yes. A rather long time ago." Harold was quiet for a moment. "Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves here?"

"Are we?"

"I don't know." Finch was quiet again for a minute, and then softly asked, "What do you want from me John?"

"I want to kiss you again. I want to feel your skin against mine. I want to wake up with you in my arms. I want us to have a few hours of happiness, a few minutes of pleasure, and if we're lucky, maybe even a few moments of joy, before the day one of us has to listen to the other die."

Harold stopped moving and his breath hitched in what might have been a sob. He leaned back so that he could look up into Reese's face, and Reese loosened his arms to let him.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say yes."

"Yes. Oh God, John, yes." 

John was leaning down to kiss him. Harold was reaching up for John. They met in the middle, hungrily, hands sliding over back and shoulders, pressing close, needing to touch, to feel. One of Harold's hands was in John's hair, and then it snaked back down across neck and collarbone to trace the triangle of skin that the open-necked shirt revealed. John felt himself starting to get hard, just from the light touches of Harold's fingers on his neck as they kissed. The fingers traced their way back up into his hair where they tangled and stayed for a moment, before journeying down again, this time pausing to stroke the little hollow between throat and collarbone. Harold pulled away from the kiss.

"John may I..." he stopped, not knowing how to ask for this.

"Anything Harold, anything you want. I'm yours." John didn't know what Harold wanted to do, but he knew that whatever it was, he wanted Harold to do it. 

Harold kissed his jaw, his neck. He trailed kisses down John's throat to the spot he was caressing with his fingers. The fingers went back up into John's hair and gripped, just holding firmly. Harold put his mouth to the spot on John's neck. The spot that was maddeningly always just barely visible. The spot that had been taunting Harold to put his lips to it for months. Now he did. His tongue snaked out to taste, his lips caressed. He felt John mould his body closer, encouraging him to take more. Harold tasted again, lapping up the sweet-salt of John's skin, and heard a deep rumble in John's chest. John was moaning in pleasure, and Harold thought it was the most sensual noise he had ever heard. He fastened his lips to the spot and suckled.

"Don't stop." John gasped, "So good Harold, don't stop." John was fully hard now and was having to fight to keep himself from thrusting into Harold's thigh. He desperately wanted to feel more of Harold's skin before the pressure became overwhelming, and he despaired of getting him out of his three-piece suit. He slid his hands into Harold's jacket and up the silk back of his waistcoat. Harold seemed to get the message, and dropped one arm and slipped it out of the jacket. He put his hand back on John's waist, and started gently tugging his shirt out of his waistband while he dropped the other arm and let the jacket slide to the floor.

Reese's nimble fingers made short work of the buttons on the front of the waistcoat, and soon had it off Harold's shoulders. The spot on his neck had by now been kissed, licked, sucked, and caressed, and was so sensitive that when Harold ran the tips of his fingers across it, John gasped.

"OK?" Harold looked up at him, concerned.

"Better than OK. Feels wonderful." He smiled and took Harold's mouth again in a kiss, wanting to taste more of him. Harold took the opportunity to go back to working on untucking John's shirt from his pants. With a series of careful little tugs, he freed the shirt and then slid his arms up inside it, running his fingers and palms up John's broad back.  
Again, Reese had to fight the urge to thrust his erect cock into Harold's thigh. The fact that he could be so hard, so painfully aroused just from Harold's hands on his skin was making him realise that he needed to take just a little control back if he didn't want this to end much too soon.

Reese moved his hands to Harold's shoulders, and then to his face. Taking Harold's face in both hands, he broke the kiss and leaned their foreheads together. 

"Sorry Harold, I need to slow down a bit. It's OK, it's good, it's very good. I've just wanted this for so long that I'm a little overwhelmed. I'd like us to at least be naked and horizontal before I come."

He was rewarded by another hitch in Harold's breathing, and a hand reaching up to loosen his tie. 

"May I?" Reese asked.

Harold smiled permission and dropped his hands to John's waist. John deftly undid the tie, draping it over a nearby chair, and then quickly unbuttoned the shirt buttons. He ran one hand down Harold's arm and lifted one small, soft hand to his lips before unfastening the cufflink and depositing it on the table. He reached for the other hand, and heard Harold's breath hitch again as he lifted the fingers to his lips once more. Cuffs unfastened, he slid the shirt off. Harold was, of course, wearing an undershirt. 

"Shall I?" Harold asked, lifting his own hands to untuck the shirt.

"Please, I don't want to hurt your neck. What... Is there anywhere I shouldn't touch you? Anything I shouldn't do?"

"I'll be fine, John. Just go slow, and I'll be fine."

"Slow is good." John said, stripping off his own shirt. Harold pulled his t-shirt over his head and re-adjusted his glasses, and then his mouth formed an appreciative "Oh," and reached out to touch.

"Hey, there's nothing you haven't seen before... I on the other hand," John reached out to trace a line of scarring from Harold's neck down across his shoulder blade.

"I...I'm not..." Harold stammered, looking at the floor. John understood the tone in his voice and caught his chin, gently tilting Harold's head back up to look into John's eyes. 

"I want to see. I want to touch. I want you."

Harold's eyes went wide and his breathing quickened.

"Then perhaps we should..." his glance darted towards the bed at the other end of the loft.

"Yes. We should. You go ahead, I'll just lock up." 

Harold looked at him for a moment, then nodded, and turned. John resolutely headed back into the kitchen, double-checking the stove and turning off the lights. He stopped at the door, checking the locks and setting the alarm, then he headed to the back of the loft, leaving only a single small lamp by the sofa lit. In the middle of the city, light flooded through the big industrial windows of the loft all night - John sometimes longed for the full dark of a moonless night in the high desert, no matter how bad his memories of most of those nights were.

He paused for a moment, transfixed, as he saw Harold standing naked by his bed, his back to John, carefully stacking his trousers, socks, and underwear on a chair. He watched, smiling, as Harold turned and quickly slid into bed.

"I thought it would be easier..." Harold said, looking down at his lap and blushing a very bright pink. 

"I appreciate the initiative, Harold." John said, striding to the foot of the bed and sitting down to take off his shoes and socks. Standing again, he quickly stripped off his pants and underwear, and came to stand on Harold's side of the bed.

"Scoot over."

"Am I on your side?"

"You're on the side nearest to the door."

"Ah." Harold moved to the middle of the bed, and John climbed in. It was oddly chaste, suddenly, sitting next to each other, with the covers pooled around their hips.

"How would you feel about taking your glasses off?"

"As long as I can reach them, fine," Harold handed the glasses to John, who put them on the bedside table, then, "Give me your hand."

John raised an eyebrow at him, but held out his left hand, palm up. Harold turned it over, and then guided it under the covers, saying, "I don't want you to be surprised, later." Harold put John's hand on his thigh, and then slid it downwards, towards the knee. John felt the familiar rough texture of scar tissue and then the large dip where muscle had been completely torn away.

"No wonder you limp." John said mildly, fingers gently tracing the contours of the injury.

"It's one of the reasons." Harold paused looking down at his lap again, as John continued to explore with gentle fingertips, memorizing the size, shape and location of the divot. "I don't know what comes next."

There were several frivolous answers to that, but John leaned back, folded his hands together behind his head, and gave him a serious one. "Whatever you want Harold."

"Whatever I want," Harold repeated. He reached out a hand and laid it flat over John's heart. His eyes roved the rest of the broad chest, tracing lines from bullet scar to knife wound to... the next bullet scar, and back.

"I want to forget. The Machine, the numbers, the faces, the danger, the deaths. With Grace I could, for a little while sometimes, and spend an evening or a weekend pretending that I really was just another mediocre database engineer, with a beautiful, talented fiancé who unaccountably loved me as much as I loved her. But that was before... Now with you, there's no forgetting, no pretending. My body doesn't move properly any more, and yours is covered with the evidence of our..." Harold stopped, not able to choose between, 'profession', 'mission', and 'destiny.'

"Our life, Harold." John took Harold's hand and slid it down to the bullet scar on the side of his abdomen. "I don't regret a single moment of this life that you've given me. I'd like to think you don't regret it either."

"Of course not, how could I? We've done a lot of good, saved people who would have otherwise died. Sometimes I just wish..."

"What?"

"That we could somehow save ourselves."

"It doesn't work that way Harold."

"I know." Harold looked up, turning sideways to look John in the eyes. "Touch me, John. Kiss me. Hold me. Let's aim for one of those moments of joy."

John gathered Harold into his arms, eased them both down onto the bed, and they did just that.

 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my beta-reader i_m_just_jay513.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at Queen of Wands


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